


Elegy

by mahons_ondine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Wedding, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:16:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahons_ondine/pseuds/mahons_ondine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock headed back to Baker Street after leaving the wedding early. He was more than a little bit not okay.  Fortunately, he isn't alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elegy

**Author's Note:**

> I have always wondered where Sherlock went after the wedding. I thought for a long time that he might have ended up in the same crack den he later frequents, but I think, perhaps, he would crave the comfort of home, as much as 221B is home without John. 
> 
> This is not betaed. There might be mistakes. Punctuation has never been my forte. Criticism is more than welcome.

Sherlock was finally home. 

Well, maybe finally was the wrong word. Maybe home was the wrong word.  After all, home may have always felt like London, but that was before John Watson(BJW).  AJW (after John Watson), home was, more often than not, wherever John was.  But John was on a dance floor in the country dancing with his family.  And Sherlock was back in London, walking up to an empty house.  Sherlock glanced up at the darkened windows of 221, and saw a curl of smoke leak out where he’d left one cracked.  Maybe not quite empty, after all.  Sherlock flew up the stairs two at a time, slamming the door to his living room open. 

“Get out, Mycroft.”

Mycroft lazily takes a drag of his cigarette, “You’re home early, brother mine.”

Sherlock pouts, whipping off his Belstaff and tossing it onto John’s chair.  He clambers over the arm of the couch, flops down and closes his eyes.   Mycroft reaches over and offers Sherlock his pack of cigarettes, but Sherlock ignores it.  Sighing, Mycroft lights a second cigarette and holds it up to his brother’s mouth. Sherlock sucks in the smoke, purring at the taste, and finally taking the cigarette for himself. 

“Mm Dunhill.  Not your usual shite.  Who died?”

“You have to ask? Touching speech, today.  A fitting eulogy for an ill-fitting friendship.  I told you not to get involved. “

“Nothing has changed.”

“Ah, Sherlock.  We both know that’s not true. Now, let’s have a toast, shall we?” Mycroft reaches for the scotch bottle on the coffee table and fills two glasses nearly to the brim. 

“Yes, of course. Please, help yourself, Mycroft.  Anything else you need? Tea? Biscuits?”

“Oh no, Sherlock.  That’s quite alright.  Don’t trouble yourself overmuch.  Besides, I brought biscuits.”  Mycroft pulls a couple of packages of chocolate hob nobs from his briefcase, followed by a second bottle of scotch.  He tosses one package into Sherlock’s lap and pulls open the other, very delicately, with his teeth.  “Now, about that toast! Shall we toast to the happy couple? Or perhaps the happy threesome would be more appropriate?” 

Growling, Sherlock sits up and turns to glare at Mycroft, sloshing scotch all over his hands and absently lapping it up, hobnobs crashing to the ground.  Mycroft just cocks an eyebrow, raises his glass, and downs half the Scotch in one go.  Sherlock knocks back the whole glass and sullenly sticks it out for more. 

“You knew.”

“Of course I knew.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Well, I did warn you, but you were always going to the wedding.  Besides, you may not have known about Mary, but you knew enough.  You wrote a eulogy to your friendship, a funeral dirge for your happiness, and came back here to shut yourself up in this mausoleum you shared with him.  What should I have said to you that would have made it easier to bear? Hmm? Even if you had known you would have gone, correct?”

“…Yes.”

“Yes, well, you never did have much of a sense of self-preservation.  My fault, really, wrap a child in bubble wrap his whole life, and he’ll never learn that he can break.”

“I’m not a child, Mycroft.  I haven’t been a child in some time,” sighs Sherlock, leaning back to rest his head against the couch. 

Mycroft shifts forward to top off their drinks, stubbing out their cigarettes and lighting two more to replace them.  And then, he studies his brother.  Sherlock is gaunt, and pale, but he is always gaunt and pale.  He takes very poor care of himself, and has always done.  Now, he looks tired.  He looks weak.  Tiny frown lines are forming.  Bags stand out under his eyes, bruises on his delicate skin.  Sherlock looks worse than he had in Serbia.  Worse than he had when he’d overdosed.  Sherlock looks old.  He looks older than Mycroft, certainly.  That idea gives Mycroft a brief burst of pleasure, but, for once, he thinks perhaps he would have preferred not to be right. 

“So I see, brother.  Growing pains have done a number on you, though.  Perhaps you’ll listen to me in the future?”

“I hardly think that’s likely.”

“Yes, too much to hope for, I suppose. “

“Indeed.”

Mycroft shifts, leaving his mostly full glass on the table, and tearing into the hobnobs instead.  He polishes off half the packet with alacrity, while Sherlock sits like a statue.  Eyes closed. Eyelashes damp and sticking to his cheeks.  The cigarette burns down and down.  Ashes falling off in clumps.  Eventually he startles, head shooting up, eyes wild. 

“David!”

“No, Sherlock.”

“But he wants her.”

“And she wants John.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, there’s no chance.  I looked into it. “

“You’ve been having her followed.”

“To some degree.  She hasn’t filled a birth control prescription in months. And it’s only been John.”

“It wasn’t an accident.  Of course, it couldn’t have been.  It’s hard enough for a woman on the wrong side of 35 to get pregnant on purpose.  It would hardly happen by accident.”

“Congratulations, brother.  It seems she feared for her relationship enough that she sought to be certain she would keep him.”

“John’s an honorable man.  He would never leave his wife, pregnant or not.  Certainly not for the work.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“Leave off, Mycroft. “

“Surely you know it isn’t about the work?  He worships you.

“He needs the excitement.  Needed the excitement.” 

“Much as it pains me to say it, he loves you.  He may be a goldfish, but he loves you. “

“I am his best man.”

“Best friend.”

“Not anymore, Mycroft.  He has Mary.  He’s happy.  Now, why are you still here?”

“I’m finishing my drink,” he states breezily, plucking his glass from the table and taking a modest sip. 

Sherlock studies his brother for a minute, then glances around the room, taking in the neatness of his papers, the gaps in the dust on the mantle.

“Oh for fucks sake, Mycroft.  Did you find anything? No.  Of course not.  Now just leave.”

“I think not.  Your train arrived at 22:35, but you didn’t arrive at Baker Street until 23:40. It’s no more than 12 minutes on the tube depending on the train you take, but you didn’t take the train.  You always take a cab.”

“I might’ve walked.”

“You might’ve, but you didn’t.  It’s only three and a half miles.  You would have been back here twenty minutes earlier at least.  Besides, I heard your cab pull up.  No you took a detour on your way home.  You went to fetch more of those disgusting drugs.  Where are they?”

“Did we not agree just a few moments ago that I was no longer a child, brother-dear?  I don’t need you.  I won’t sit here in my own living room and just bend over for the chastisement.  I will do as I please, and you know it.  Now.  I think you’ve seriously overstayed your welcome. It’s time to go, Mycroft.”  

Jumping to his feet, Sherlock drinks the rest of his scotch in one go.  He takes Mycroft’s glass from his unresisting fingers and finishes that scotch as well. And then, miracle of miracles, he puts the glasses in the sink, puts both bottles of scotch in the cabinet, and rescues his hob nobs from the floor.  Mycroft tightens his grip on his biscuits. 

“I won’t take your precious biscuits, Mycroft.  I don’t want to lose a hand.  I will, however, take these,” Sherlock reaches into his brother’s pocket and gleefully lifts out the Dunhills.  He turns to go, but he’s waylaid by his brother’s hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. 

“Sherlock, please.”

“I’m not a child, Mycroft.” 

He shakes off his brother’s grip, and stalks off into the kitchen, making a great ruckus as usual. 

Mycroft hangs his head. 

Abruptly the noise stops, and all that can be heard is the rustle of Sherlock’s wilted suit as he glides back into the living room.  Mycroft looks up at his brother, and watches as he pulls a handful of vials out of his pocket.  Sherlock lines them up on the coffee table.  Straightening them into a perfectly even line.  He scoops up single vial and walks towards his bedroom, but stops in the doorway. 

“There’s still a bed upstairs you know,” he gestures with his head, without looking at his brother. “You’re welcome to it if you’ve eaten too many biscuits to make it home.  Just try not to break the bed.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft breathes. 

Sherlock jerks his head in sharp nod and flounces off to his room.  Mycroft leans back in his chair.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you… thank you... thank you.”


End file.
